


Detonation

by schemingreader



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-25 18:58:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schemingreader/pseuds/schemingreader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's London flat was a small place, but in a good location, worth expanding to fit a roommate—even if that roommate was your least favorite teacher, back from the dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detonation

  
The first explosion was in Harry's fireplace. He woke up and ran into the living room. It was after midnight. Minerva McGonagall was in the Floo, a halo of green flame wreathing her head. "Harry!" she called.

"I'm here."

"Harry, it's such a shock. There's been an accident with a Time Turner. I can't explain—you have to come to Hogwarts."

"Is everyone—was anyone killed?"

"No, no—it's too complicated, laddie. Please come. We need you."

Harry threw on clothing and ran around his flat, collecting his things. He couldn't do this alone; he had to have Ron and Hermione with him. He wrote a very quick note—Ron could read his writing—and sent it to them by owl.

Then he grabbed his broom, ready to fly to Scotland. He was mad—he scrubbed his face with one hand, and then pushed off the windowsill into the warm London night.

Through the window, he saw his fireplace flare again, and turned back.

"Harry!" Hermione was calling. "You can't fly all the way to Scotland in one night!"

"Why not?"

"It’ll take too long and you’ll be exhausted when you finally get there," she said. "Come through."

He took a pinch of Floo powder from the mantel. "Ron and George's place!" he called, and walked through to Ron's flat.

"I'd rather fly," he said, coughing.

"I have a Portkey," Hermione said.

"You just happened to have one?" Ron asked. "I know, I know," he said, "if you told me you'd have to kill me."

"Unspeakables don't—"

"Let's just go," Harry said. "McGonagall needs us."

The Portkey tugged at his navel in the familiar way. They landed in Hogsmeade next to the train station, looking across the lake at the castle. It was like going back in time.

* * *

"He's alive?" Ron sat down abruptly on one of the infirmary beds. "I know I said we should stop being surprised when people we think are dead, turn up alive, but honestly."

"He died right in front of us," Hermione said. She stared at the wall for a moment, willing it to explain Snape's sudden reappearance.

"He had a Time Turner," Madame Pomfrey explained. "It sent him ahead three years. We found him in the Shack, still bleeding to death, but alive. I've stopped the bleeding and he's taken blood replenishing potions and anti-venins."

"Did he really ask to see us?" Harry asked.

"You, Harry," Madame Pomfrey said. "I thought it would be helpful for Miss Granger to see him, as well. "

"To me, you mean," Hermione said. "Because it was so horrible to see him die. Not die. Nearly die."

Harry swallowed. "I suppose we should go in there."

They walked around a screen and there was Snape. His hair made a black fan around his head, the white of the pillowcase in stark contrast, and his long, sallow hands lay on top of the white blankets. He looked like a medieval painting of a dying saint. He wasn't as large as Harry remembered, or perhaps it was his vulnerability, laid out in a bed.

Then he opened his eyes.

"Professor," Harry said.

"Potter," Snape said, a little hoarsely. "Don't stand all the way over there, I can't project without a spell." Harry pulled a chair next to the head of the bed. "All right," Snape said. "I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I'm sorry," Snape said.

Of all the things Snape could possibly say to him, a simple apology was the last Harry had expected.

"Why aren't you saying anything?" Snape asked.

"Because I," Harry tried to say, but couldn't get any more words out.

"I realise some would say my role in your parents' death was fated," Snape said, his voice quiet and raspy. "I don't think I will ever come to terms with it. Professor Dumbledore told me that I might find absolution if I told you I was sorry."

Harry looked at him, even though he knew Snape was scowling.

"I didn't think it would work," Snape said, his face averted.

Harry grasped his hand to shake it. "Right," he said around the thickness in his throat. "I'm sorry, too."

Snape still didn't look at him, but he squeezed Harry's hand gently before he extricated his own and put it over his eyes. Harry expected him to say something like, "But we'll never be friends," or "Go away, Potter," but he didn't say a word. He turned over in the bed away from Harry with his hand shielding his face.

"He's very tired," Madame Pomfrey said. Harry stood. Hermione sniffled behind him. It was good she was there to hear it so there would be someone to confirm that really happened.

* * *

They clomped down the stairs to the Great Hall. "What the bloody hell was that?" Ron said.

"That was resolution," Hermione said.

"Not really," Harry said. "I have work to do, now."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want Snape to be arrested for Dumbledore's murd—I mean, for his role in Dumbledore's death. I have to write a letter to the ministry, a what-do-you-call it. An affidavit."

"Nice Auror vocabulary," Ron said.

"They already know what he did. You taunted Voldemort in public," Hermione said.

"But what if they—"

"They aren't going to prosecute. They didn't do anything to the Malfoys, did they? They just walked away." Hermione's voice was only a little bitter.

"The Malfoys," Harry said. "Of course they got away with everything. Even Dumbledore cared more about Draco than he did about Snape."

"Though I wouldn't say Draco just walked away," Hermione said.

"No more than you did," Ron said.

Hermione grasped Harry's upper arm. "I'm just afraid if you draw the Ministry's attention to Snape, they'll decide to prosecute him."

"Better to leave well enough alone," Ron agreed.

"I have to at least collect the evidence," Harry insisted.

"You want to watch his memories again," Hermione said. "You ought to return them."

"I'll return them," Harry said, his face heating.

"You want to ask him about your mum," Ron said.

"Yeah," Harry said. "I'm going to owl Shacklebolt for a leave of absence from the course."

Ron snorted.

"What?" Harry said.

"You were just looking for an excuse to get away from those twits."

Hermione nodded, "It was getting to you, the anti-intellectual tone of the group."

"Anti-intellectual tone!" Ron said. "That's one way of putting it. Bunch of drooling imbeciles, more like."

"Do you want to take a leave, too?" Hermione asked him.

"Nah," Ron said. "I can live with the anti-intellectual tone. I'm not much of an intellectual, me. Anyway, the stipend is good money." He turned on Harry, who was frowning.

"Ah ah ah, no you don't," he said.

"What?"

"I can hear you thinking guilty thoughts."

"If you can hear his guilty thoughts, imagine what Snape's going to do," Hermione said.

"Yeah," Ron said.

"It'll be fine," Harry said, and tried to believe it.

* * *

Harry had never thought of Howlers as anything frightening. He was lucky the first one he'd ever seen was from Molly Weasley. He was lucky he found out how terrifying they could be when he was sitting outside, eating a sandwich next to the lake. It was a lovely day and he didn't want to be indoors with all the students.

He was lucky he knew the Auror spell to redirect mail.

Five owls converged on him, bearing the red envelopes—a sixth dropped one that was already in flames. "SEVERUS SNAPE!" the flaming letter bellowed. "I know you are alive, but not for long, Snape! Not for long, you stinking traitor."

He'd have to cast something on the remaining five to find out who sent them before they exploded. He got one but had to hurl the rest into the lake. They went up more like grenades than like fireworks, churning the water. Sheets of water shone silver and Harry was drenched.

They hadn't succeeded in keeping Snape's survival quiet. That wasn't lucky, at all.

Harry walked back to the castle.

* * *

Snape pretended hard that he was not ill, but Harry could tell he was still feeling the snake venom. Madame Pomfrey kept him in the infirmary for a week. Harry trudged up the stairs to visit him in the morning and the evening, though Snape wouldn't talk to him. Not in a rude way—he was surprisingly polite, greeting Harry and thanking him if he brought him something to read or eat and then saying a pleasant goodbye—but in between, sitting up in bed, looking sadly out the window.

Harry could only sit watching Snape be sad for 20 minutes at a time before he had to get up and _do_ something. He knew he needed to write out his affidavit and to do that he had to watch Snape's memories. The pensieve was in the headmaster's office, and Harry didn't have a way to move it. He'd had to work up some courage to ask Professor McGonagall for time alone in her office with it, but she'd been surprisingly agreeable. Apparently she preferred to work in her old office most of the time.

Every morning he got up early to fly, and then had breakfast with the elves in the kitchen, and got some fruit to bring to Snape. Then he sat with Snape for a bit, trying to think of other things so that he would look attentive but not like he was pressuring Snape to speak. He did it three times a day, even though it was very tiring to think of things that weren't going to make him seem impatient, angry or guilty, like he pitied Snape or like he didn't care what happened to him.

After that he had to spend the afternoon in Snape's memories, to be sure he hadn't missed anything. It was painful and glorious to see his mother again. Snape seemed more and more like an ordinary person, more like someone Harry had known at school. It was still hard to watch his father acting like an ass.

He spent the evenings reading old copies of the Prophet and the Quibbler and writing what he thought Snape had done during the war.

On Saturday morning, Snape finally spoke. "Why do you keep visiting me?"

"Um," Harry said.

"Do you want something?"

"I'm writing an affidavit," Harry began.

"How nice for you," Snape said, and then looked annoyed.

Harry laughed.

"What kind of affidavit?" Snape growled, finally.

"I want to have something in writing that proves you didn't murder Dumbledore."

"You sit here looking profoundly uncomfortable three times a day, I thought you must want something of me," Snape said.

"No," Harry said. "Well, yes, I would like you to read what I've written and then I need to give you back the memories you gave me when you were—when Nagini bit you."

"It's very tiring trying not to revert back to old behaviour," Snape said.

"Yes!" Harry blurted. "I mean, I'm glad—I'm sorry you—" He didn't know whether Snape had meant that Harry was tiring himself out trying not to be a berk, or that Snape was.

Snape's mouth went crooked. "Ah, you don't want to tire me out," he said.

"I meant I was trying," Harry said, even though he could see Snape knew what he meant. "I was trying not to be a total prat. We were always at odds, and I thought you were my enemy, and then you died. I mean, I thought you died, and I—I am sorry that I keep looking at your memories. I've been looking at them all week, trying to understand."

"I gave them to you," Snape said. He sighed.

"I didn't know anything about my mother," Harry said. "Until I came to Hogwarts, I thought she'd died in a car accident. I had no photographs of her."

Snape took a breath. "I'm not sure I want those memories back," he said.

"You aren't…upset that I'm looking at them? Do you remember what they were?"

"I know what they were," Snape said. "Removing them made them less vivid. They don't hurt. They used to hurt."

"She was so beautiful," Harry said.

"You're heartless," Snape said, without feeling.

"I want to know her," Harry said. "I missed everything."

"All right, Potter," Snape said. "We'll talk about your mother."

"I'm sorry," Harry said. "You're ill."

Snape lay back on the pillow. "You're twenty, aren't you," he said. "You're actually a bit taller than you were. Hard to tell, lying down like this. Why don't you help me out of bed?"

It meant coming closer and letting Snape put his arm around Harry's shoulders. He walked slowly, leading Snape in a stately procession through the infirmary, with its rows of white beds.

Snape's body was really warm. Harry hadn't been this close to him since he was bleeding on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, only this time they were actually touching. He would never have imagined that it felt good.

"That's enough," Snape said. Harry brought him over to the chair next to his bed, where Snape sat.

"Can I bring you the affidavit to read tomorrow?" Harry asked.

Snape nodded. "Then I suppose you'll clear out," he said. "You must be eager to return to your life."

"No," Harry said, without thinking.

"You don't owe me anything," Snape said.

"Are you joking? I owe you everything!"

"As gratifying as I imagined it would be to hear that," Snape said. "I find myself unwilling to take further responsibility for your welfare."

"I want to help you," Harry explained.

"I don't care what you want." Snape put his head in his hands.

"That's more like it," Harry said to himself.

"I just want to go home," Snape muttered. "I'm certain my house was sold."

"Yes, I think so," Harry said, and sat down next to him. "You can stay with me."

"Oh, surely not," Snape said.

"Why not? I have a place in London, it never belonged to my parents or yours or Sirius Black's. There's a room."

"You can just ask me questions about your mother, you don't have to bring me home like some kind of _pet_."

If Snape were a pet, what would he be? That was an interesting thought. He'd be a cat, wouldn't he, perhaps a vicious magical one like a kneazle, like Crookshanks.

Thinking about Snape the cat made it difficult to take Snape's ill temper at face value.

"Potter," Snape said. "You're smiling at me."

"Sorry," Harry said.

* * *

"I think you're confused about something," Hermione said as she carried boxes, one in her hands and two floating behind her, into Harry's London flat.

September was sunny in London and Harry's living room had a window with a southern exposure. It was a tiny flat with a crap kitchen, but wizardry could fix that. It was Harry's good luck to find this building with functioning fireplaces. They lived in a smoke control zone so Harry had to learn the charms to keep a magical fire going. It was a small place, but in a good location, worth expanding to fit a roommate—even if that roommate was your least favorite teacher, back from the dead.

"What's that?" Harry asked apprehensively.

"I think you've come to believe that Snape feels the same way about you as he felt about your mother," she said.

Ron laughed.

"Maybe," Harry said.

"What?" Apparently Ron was not expecting this.

"Snape was the only person who seemed unhappy that I could be killed facing Voldemort," Harry said.

"That's not true!" Hermione said.

"I mean, the only adult. He cried about it. I saw it—in his memories. Dumbledore was all 'tra-la-la, I suspect you'll survive sacrificing yourself by magic, but I'm going to be dead anyway, what do I care,' and Snape was crushed."

"But that was because he felt bad for Lily," Hermione said. "You know, she sacrificed herself for you, he didn't want that to be in vain…"

"All right, that's probably true," Harry said. "Still, he cared."

"He was horrible to you, but he loved her."

"I think he was probably horrible to her, too," Harry said. "Some people are horrible when they're in love. Ron."

Ron snorted. "Yeah, Hermione."

"So you think he loves you?"

Harry shrugged. "I don’t care. He was my mother's friend. I would have done this for Sirius or Remus." His voice thickened a little on their names. "He can't be worse than my aunt."

"Who was abusive and neglectful," Hermione said. Ron laid a hand on her arm before she started ranting and raving again.

"Yeah, so, that's what it was," Harry said. "Then I met you lot, and now I have some love in my life, and Snape has nothing. He was half dead."

Ron put his arm around Harry, which was a kind thing to do, and said, "It's going to kill your love life, sharing a flat with the old bastard," which wasn't.

"Thanks, Ron," Harry said.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "What's the point of being a wizard if you can't figure out privacy," she said.

Hermione did the spell to expand the room a bit. It had been an airing cupboard, but now it was quite a nice bedroom. Ron did the honours with unpacking the boxes and making the room look presentable, if a little bland. No Quidditch posters for Snape—he might have his own things to put up.

Once they had the new room all set up, Harry got them all something to drink.

"He's going to be difficult to live with," Hermione said. "But perhaps he'll want to conduct his own love life, and won't get in your hair."

"Really?" Ron said. "That seems so unlikely."

A knock at the door startled him.

"Good thing Snape has traditional manners and doesn't just Apparate into the house," Hermione said. Two loud cracks and she and Ron were gone.

Harry opened the door and there was Snape. He had only a small bandage left on his neck, and he looked clean and like someone had trimmed his hair.

"Good afternoon, Potter," he said, holding his hand out stiffly. Harry reached to shake hands and there was a huge explosion in the corridor. They both yelled "Down!" at each other, and grappled to the floor—Snape trying to shield Harry and Harry trying to shield Snape from the blast.

They wound up awkwardly casting shield spells from the floor back to back, each attempting to protect the other. The front door slammed shut.

They both swore, Harry invoking Merlin's scrotum and Snape, Jesus Sodding Christ.

"So much for not having to take care of you," Snape muttered.

"This was for you," Harry said. "Whoever sent those Howlers while you were in the infirmary at Hogwarts—"

"What Howlers?"

"I cast Progredi Persevera," Harry explained. "I was afraid of what someone might send you if they realised you were alive, and I was right, because you got some hate mail. I mean I got it."

"You were going to open my post?" Snape looked incredibly dangerous for a moment, and then there was a loud knock at the door.

"All right in there?" The voice was unfamiliar and female. Snape drew his wand and moved out of sight and Harry opened the door. It was a young woman, the intelligent-looking Muggle from the first floor who always said good morning. He did _not_ want to have to Obliviate her.

"I'm Susan," she said. "We say hello all the time. Are you all right?"

"Fine," Harry said. "I don't know what that was."

"I dropped a box of books," Snape said, coming out from behind the door. Harry could see that he had his wand in his sleeve.

"That must have been an awfully heavy box!"

Snape must have had one with him, or conjured one, because he walked around Susan and picked up a very realistic box of books. "It didn't break," he said.

She looked at him with some admiration. It was true that his arms looked muscular holding the box of books, which was open. "Oh, you have a very broad, er, literary taste!"

Snape looked remarkably uncomfortable. "I’m terribly sorry, I must finish unpacking, I have—work tomorrow."

"Oh, of course," Susan said politely. She withdrew and Harry heard her footsteps on the stairs.

"I cannot believe you opened my post," Snape began.

"You were very ill," Harry said. "You had a bleeding snake bite, for fuck's sake."

"Language," Snape said automatically, and then shook his head. "I don't have to care about your language any longer, do I."

"Let's have something to eat," Harry said. "I'm sorry I didn't allow you to receive your own exploding post. From now on, all owls come to you."

Snape scowled. "Fine."

"That lady from downstairs liked you," Harry said, opening the fridge. "I have roast beef for sandwiches, is that OK?"

"What do you mean, she liked me?"

"She found you attractive." Snape looked dismayed. "Are you a vegetarian?"

"No. Roast beef is fine."

Harry used his wand to assemble the sandwiches, which was a little silly—he had a little mustard pot that danced over on its silly, silver legs and spread mustard on the bread, while he put the slices of meat on by hand.

"I don't date," Snape burst out.

"That's fine," Harry said.

"First I was in love with Lily, and then—I was grieving her loss." He paused. Harry handed him a bottle of beer. "Then she died and I thought I ought to die too." Harry took the bottle back and removed the cap but Snape still sat there. "Then I was very busy as you know. I was teaching, so it wasn't as though there were a lot of other adults around."

"I understand," Harry said.

"And then I was a double agent again and almost certainly going to die, so I could hardly ask anyone to—I could hardly."

"All right," Harry said.

"Just leave it, Potter," Snape said suddenly. "Leave it!" He was weighing the bottle dangerously, and Harry lifted it out of his hand. "I wasn't going to throw it."

"You missed out on a lot," Harry said gently.

Snape got up. "I never want to discuss this again," he said. "I'm going to lie down. I have a headache." He stalked out of the room. Harry could hear the creak of the floor as he flopped onto the bed.

Snape was forty and still a virgin. All right, he wasn't really forty because he'd been thrown forward in time three years. He was what, thirty-seven? Thirty-eight?

The nice Muggle lady downstairs couldn't have been the only woman to notice that he was attractive, could she? Harry couldn't believe that. Now that Snape wasn't his teacher, he could see the man had a nice physique, and a rugged face. Yes, he had a big nose and yellow teeth and those crazy heavy eyebrows, but big noses were meant to be a sign of, well, masculinity, and only a really shallow person cared about the colour of your teeth. Women weren't shallow like that.

Harry couldn't understand it. If he were a woman, he would have seen Snape and thought, "I'll comb the eyebrows down with my thumbs." He imagined Snape's face in some anonymous woman's hands, his jaw resting in on the pads of her palms, eyes shut ecstatically.

Harry took off his glasses and set them on the table so he could touch his own eyebrows, thinking about how Snape's would feel. He hadn't realised thumbs were such sensitive fingers, able to feel the individual hairs. Even the side of his thumb could feel the sweep of his eyelashes, and Snape's eyelashes were longer. Snape wasn't handsome, no, but he had an erotic face and all these years he'd stayed chaste, mourning for Harry's mother.

It was sad.

Harry wished he could do something about it, but Snape didn't even want Harry opening his Howlers when he was recovering from a snakebite. This was probably somewhere up there with witnessing Snape killing Dumbledore and viewing his worst memory in the Pensieve.

They'd never be friends.

Harry drank a little more of the beer and leaned against the kitchen wall.

* * *

The next explosion was Thursday—rubbish day. They were on their way out of the flat and stopped to put their bags into the bins for their building. Harry flung the bag into the barrel and it went up with a huge bang, flinging banana and orange peels everywhere.

Snape liked to eat fruit with a little knife, even bananas. He sat creating impeccably geometric parings on a kitchen towel. He would fold each full towel into an origami polyhedra, practically sealing the edges against runaway peel, before he tossed it in the bin. He'd done these dissections every day for the last five, cutting out Help Wanted ads in the Prophet and the Evening Standard as he ate.

The eviscerated newspapers and the fruit corpses were flying through the air with coffee grounds and chicken bones and wet tea bags, sour milk and egg shells. They spattered Harry's clothing and Snape's limbs, which Harry was too short to shield, even lying full length on top of him as he was.

"Potter," Snape growled. "Get off of me."

"Are you all right?" Harry panted. "Your nose is bleeding."

"You body-slammed me into the pavement, of course my nose is bleeding."

Harry tried to help him up, but Snape shrugged him off. "Episkey," Harry murmured, and Snape's nose, and his lip, which was also split, healed. "Sorry."

Susan came rushing up behind him. "What happened?" she asked. "That was most definitely an explosion, that time. You're covered with rubbish!"

"We must have put something in the bin that—" Harry began.

"I've phoned the police," she said.

"I can't stay to wait for them," Snape said. "I have a job interview."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "You can talk to them, can't you, Harry?"

He tried not to make a face. "I have an appointment, too, I'm afraid."

The police were already there—and one of them was Kingsley Shacklebolt, who gave Harry a solemn nod. He did a quick memory modification on the sweet Muggle neighbour as he ushered her back into the building. The other Auror cleaned up the rubbish with a quick wand movement.

"What happened here, Potter?" Shacklebolt asked kindly.

Harry wasn't sure whether the Ministry knew about Snape, and he preferred that they not find out, if possible. Shacklebolt had kept Sirius safe from them during the war, but could Harry depend on him now?

"I was putting my rubbish in the bin when it exploded," Harry said truthfully.

"Have you received any threats lately?"

Strictly speaking, they hadn't been threats for Harry. "Just the usual," Harry said.

"Someone cursed the bins," the other Auror reported. "Ruderi displodo. Not a very dangerous curse, practically a hex. Almost a joke."

"I have to take this seriously," Shacklebolt said. "It could be someone who wants to harass you by letting you know they know where you live."

Harry nodded. "I'll renew the wards on my flat," he said, trying to sound responsible and adult. "It could be one of my friends, taking the piss."

"Keep me informed, please," Shacklebolt said, and he and the other Auror Disapparated.

Harry went back upstairs to have another shower.

* * *

On Saturday, while Snape was out, Harry stuck his head in the Floo. "Hi George, is Ron at home?" he asked.

"Harry Potter, as I live and breathe," George said. "Ronnie!"

"I hate it when he calls me that," Ron said, poking his head in.

"Ron, could you come through? I want to talk with you about something."

Ron could come through the Floo without getting completely covered in ashes, unlike Harry, who'd never quite got the hang of it. Besides, Harry didn't want George to hear what he was going to ask.

"Did you make my rubbish bins explode?"

"What?" Ron started to laugh, hard.

"It had to be someone who didn't want to hurt me but who wanted to get back at Snape. Did you tell your family he's alive?"

"What do you take me for?" Ron took a bite of the apple he was holding. Ron wasn't the type to cut up apples into pieces before he ate them. He wasn't methodical or measured, and he didn't seem to have a thing for knives.

Not like the Half-Blood Prince, or Snape—who were, Harry had to remember, the same person.

"I take you for someone whose family loves me and doesn't love Snape. You live with George; Snape cut off his ear."

"Exploding rubbish bins? George?"

"You're thinking he'd give Snape something in his food instead, right?"

"It's more his style," Ron said thoughtfully. He looked at his apple and then shook his head. "It might have been Ginny."

"Ginny! Are you mad? You told Ginny that Snape was alive?"

Ron looked at him like he was barmy. "Mate, I didn't tell any of them Snape was alive. I think living with him is making you paranoid. Ginny might have made your rubbish bins explode because she's angry with _you_ , not with him."

"Oh," Harry said. "Why is she angry with me? I thought we were all right."

Ron shrugged. "I think she thought you'd eventually start dating again."

"Oh," Harry said again. "Sorry."

"Come on," Ron said, shoving him gently. "You know, there's something familiar about exploding rubbish bins."

"Yeah," Harry said. "Wasn't that how they tricked Mad-Eye Moody to trap him? You know, that time he was meant to be our Defence teacher at Hogwarts and we had Barty Crouch instead?"

Ron nodded.

"So exploding rubbish bins are a Death Eater M.O."

"Yeah, could be, even though they seem like the sort of thing George or Fre—George might do."

Even three years later, they sometimes slipped up and then pretended they hadn't.

At that moment, Snape opened the front door of the flat with his key. He was always careful not to Apparate into the room, which Hermione had informed Harry was very polite of him.

"Potter, Weasley," he greeted them wearily.

"Good evening, Professor," Ron said.

Snape squinted and sneered a little, which passed for affability with him, and went into his room.

"You need to make sure he's really himself and not some polyjuiced imposter," Ron said.

"How?" Harry asked.

"How," Ron said. "You tell me, Mr. Acing-The-Auror-training."

"All right, yeah. One, Polyjuice antidote, two, if no antidote is available," he looked at Ron hopefully. Ron shook his head. "If no antidote is available, smell for tell-tale potion odour and ask revealing questions."

Ron nodded.

"Sure you have no antidote?"

"I'll just leave you to it," Ron said. "Oddly enough, I have a date with Hermione this evening."

"Oddly enough."

Ron walked to the door but Disapparated on the threshold.

Moving with the kind of false calm deliberation he had during the war, Harry went to knock on Snape's bedroom door.

"Yes?" Snape said.

"How was your job interview the other day?"

"Thursday," Snape said.

"What was the job?"

"Lab tech in a chemistry department," Snape said. "I'll be handling surprisingly volatile chemicals, considering my lack of training."

"Oh, did you get it?"

"I think so," Snape said. "It's mainly moving equipment, setting up experiments for the lecturers, mopping up, operating the fire extinguisher, that sort of thing. You don't need a university education, just A levels."

He had crammed his bed up against one wall and used a bolster to turn it into a sort of couch, so that he could sit in a half-reclining position and read.

"Did you take A levels?" Harry asked, sitting down next to him. Snape's eyes seemed to widen a little. He shut his book over his index finger so he didn’t lose his place.

"Yes," he said.

"How did you do that?"

"Anyone can sit them, Potter. I took an evening course, after Hogwarts."

"The Dark Lord didn't object?"

Snape looked away. "The Dark Lord didn't need to know everything I did."

Harry needed to smell Snape's breath. Snape would have been better for this job. He could probably smell Polyjuice from halfway across the room. He'd never have to sit this close to a subject. Harry was sitting so close he could smell aftershave on Snape's jaw.

He couldn't smell anything on his breath at all, especially not with Snape looking down and away from him. Without thinking about what he was doing, he tipped Snape's chin toward him.

Snape dropped his book, and then with a convulsive motion he grasped Harry by the shoulders. He had compelling eyes, his gaze so black and fathomless that Harry had to close his own eyes.

He could never keep his eyes open when he kissed. Certainly he couldn't look outward when his whole being was concentrated on the warmth on his mouth—in his mouth. It was a deep kiss. It radiated through his chest, awakening his nipples, the pit of his stomach, his cock. Everything in him responded to the soft amazing tongue touching his.

He certainly didn't taste Polyjuice.

"You must have done this before," Harry blurted.

"What?" Snape said. He pulled back. Harry still had his glasses on, though they were slightly fogged. Snape's mouth was slack, and his eyes were uncharacteristically wide. He looked like he'd been hit with a brick.

"Never mind," Harry said, sliding his glasses off and leaning forward, but then stopped. "Wait."

Snape just looked at him.

"Is this just—are you—"

"You don't have to stay."

"No! No. I'm—I think I’m in—a bit interested in you." He nearly said "in love," but stopped himself.

"What?"

"Do you really kiss like that?"

"Are you worried I'm an _imposter_?"

"Yes."

Snape thought for a moment. "That's not unreasonable, actually. After all, from your perspective I came back from the dead."

"No, I didn't mean—I knew that was you. I thought maybe there was a switch, the other day."

"Ask me a question."

"What were my maternal grandparents called?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Evans. What sort of question is that? I didn't call other children's parents by their first names!" It was definitely Snape—all angry impatience—but then he looked searchingly into Harry's face. "Oh God, you don't know either. Didn't Petunia tell you?"

Harry could feel the smile slide off his face.

"I'm sorry," Snape said. "I'm sorry. That bitch." He pulled Harry to him.

"No, you're right, it's no kind of identification question if I don't know the answer either."

But Snape was holding him and kissing his face, and Harry felt something inside him melting. The comfort and warmth of Snape's arms, of his closeness, his regard, was delicious, and Harry had to have more. They slid down in the bed until they were lying on it, kissing, with Snape's body pressing against him.

"I can't just—" Snape said.

"I know," Harry said. "I just want to suck your cock though, is that all right?" He kissed Snape again and began fumbling with his trousers—it wasn't easy to get another man's zip down with his arm at this odd angle. He did it and got his hand in there. He could feel a wet spot right on Snape's Y-fronts where the head of his cock was leaking. He kissed Snape's neck, and tried to get his shirt off, but it was too difficult. He finally just pushed up the shirt tails and got his head down there to nuzzle Snape's hairy belly, right above where his erection was poking against Harry's throat.

"Oh, Harry," Snape said. "Oh," and then Harry managed to get the elastic down over the head of his prick so he could put the head in his mouth, and Snape couldn't talk, he could only groan.

Harry had always believed in learning by doing, and for a change, Snape wasn't going to catch him at it. Snape didn't have the experience to know that Harry was figuring him out as he went, learning what another man liked, finding out what having a big hot cock in his mouth felt like.

It felt like he might choke. It felt amazing, like he was licking his own penis, running his tongue over that vein near the head he always liked to touch. Every time he tongued it, he could feel Snape's low rumbling groan in his own balls.

He tried to reach underneath to touch more, to fondle Snape's balls or maybe his arse, but it was all tangled with the pushed-down underwear so he just got to it, trying to suck more into his mouth. Snape pushed up into his mouth and Harry grasped the base of Snape's penis in his hand.

There was such a lot of it.

He clenched his hand hard to slide it up and down the shaft as he sucked. It was like riding some dangerous magical animal, or like he was just barely keeping Snape from flying up as he helplessly thrust his hips.

"Ah!" Snape groaned, "Ah!" and he was pushing harder into Harry's mouth. Harry humped the bed hard. The springs squeaked. He slurped. Snape pushed down on his head. He snorted and swallowed and the cock went into his throat for a moment and Snape all but screamed and then Harry's mouth was flooded with a bitter taste, like bleach, and he pulled back, and sucked it all down.

How Harry hadn't come in his pants from that, he didn't know. Snape lay there, trousers and pants half down, one foot on the floor, huge cock still mostly hard against his belly. His eyelids were heavy and his lips pouted, like they'd become swollen from biting. He looked like someone had hexed him. The relaxation hex. The sex jinx. Harry opened his own trousers to touch himself and saw that Snape was watching him.

"Allow me," he said, in a low, confidential voice, and grasped Harry's cock. Harry was right on the edge—the warm fingers closed over him, and he gasped. Snape's hand was on him. Harry shuddered all over and came.

They were both boneless now. Harry felt like he was looking through a pleasant pink haze. Snape lazily kissed Harry's face and then his mouth, and then again, those sort of open-mouthed kisses that made a gentle sound of suction. They lay there together, kissing like that, their clothing disarranged. Snape really was beautiful when his eyes were all soft and heavy-lidded in that way.

"How was that?" Harry said.

"Not bad for a beginner," Snape said.

"Oh, was it that obvious?"

"I meant me. I'm the beginner. Though I suppose you have only been with girls."

Harry nodded. "You must have kissed girls, too."

"Yes," Snape said. He was still looking very pleased with himself.

"I like girls," Harry said thoughtfully.

"Who doesn't?" Snape said. He pulled up his underwear, pushed his trousers down and rearranged his arms around Harry.

"I just didn't know if I would stop liking girls when I…" Harry started to say.

Snape nodded, and shut his eyes. He was starting to drift off. Harry stroked his eyebrows. They were softer than he'd thought. "Because that was really incredible."

"I know, Harry. Shh," Snape said, and then he was asleep.

* * *

They napped for an hour and then by some silent mutual agreement got up and went into the kitchen without talking.

"I was going to tell you," Snape said, once they'd set out some food for supper—cold chicken and potato salad, again—"that as I've found a job, I can move out in a few weeks."

"Oh," Harry said.

"I thought you would want me to do that," Snape said.

"No."

"I can't be easy to live with," Snape muttered.

Harry smiled at that. There were so many ways he could get in trouble responding to that.

"Is your sexual…interest in me sufficient to ameliorate the effect of my dark moods, explosive temper and unpleasant habits?"

"It was my idea for you to live here," Harry pointed out, "and that was independent of sexual interest. What unpleasant habits?"

"I don't know," Snape said, scowling. "I'm told I hum to myself when reading."

Harry started to giggle helplessly. "Hum?"

"Pomona found it terribly annoying when we were in the staff room together."

"Severus, you—I saw you kill someone. We saw each other's memories. You died for me—"

"No," Snape said. "I didn't die and it wasn't for you."

"You're a dark wizard, a double agent, a total bastard of a mean teacher and a tremendously brave, admirable person, and I—how the hell can you talk about humming?"

"I'm just a horrible person, that's the crux of it," Snape said.

"No." Harry got out a denial, but he couldn't stop laughing at the absurdity of this.

"You're hysterical."

"You're not a horrible person, you've never been that," Harry said, finally able to stop laughing and realising that he'd been crying, too. "You've done horrible things, but you're really strong and you're really—good. You're good."

For a moment he thought Snape would explode. "You're wrong," he said, "but I don't care. _This_ is why I—"  
He grabbed Harry and hugged him very tightly. Harry hugged him back. Harry didn't have a lot of experience with hugs from men. He'd always liked the squish of breasts against his chest, but Snape's fierce embrace felt closer. It was as though their hearts were knocking through their ribs to reach each other.

Then, with odd shyness, Snape kissed him again. "I don't think I'm ready for this," he said.

Harry nodded. "You don't have to sleep with me," he said, "but I am glad you're here with me."

* * *

Harry thought he might have made a mistake in telling Snape they didn't have to sleep together. He had a week of kisses and hugs in the kitchen, mainly when he grabbed Snape, but somehow it never went anywhere.

He had never, in a million years, thought he'd be dying to get a leg over Severus Snape.

Once Snape had started his new job, Harry went back to the end of Auror training. They weren't in class any longer, but had been assigned mentors.

It could have been worse. Harry could have had Dawlish. Whenever he and Ron had thought about how such idiots could be in Magical Law Enforcement they had always coughed "Dawlish!"

No, because Harry was important, he got the Auror who worked undercover as personal assistant to the Muggle PM, the utter badass Order of the Phoenix Auror, the one black Auror on the whole staff—Kingsley Shacklebolt.

There was no way he was going to be able to hide Snape from Shacklebolt. None. He had crap Occlumency skills, should Shacklebolt try to read his mind. (No matter what Snape said, that's what it was.) Fortunately Shacklebolt hadn't done that yet.

Harry couldn't even pretend that his rubbish bins hadn't exploded.

At least Shacklebolt liked to fly. Patrolling London with him was fantastic. The wind blew back their robes and Harry got to see some of the more obscure parts of London. Rush Green in Barking and Dagenham—certainly Ron had to come to a pub in a place called Barking. Are you Barking? Are you Ealing?

Snape was healing. He assisted the chemistry lecturers in the introductory courses when they demonstrated all the exciting experiments.

One evening, Snape came into the flat with a dour expression, as he sometimes had in Potions class. He opened his coat, and inside was a glass vial filled with some glowing blue liquid. Gas rolled off of it.

"What is it?" Harry asked.

"It's liquid oxygen," Snape said, in his "Don’t-you-know-anything?" tone. Harry thought he could detect a bubble of glee under the words, however. "I've smuggled it out of the lab to show you how it works."

"How it works?" Harry asked, a little gormlessly.

"In the air, as a gas, we breathe it, obviously. It's necessary to all life," Snape said. "Today one of the instructors demonstrated that the liquid form, which is highly reactive, is also magnetic."

"Why? Is oxygen a metal?"

"The atoms have permanent polarity."

"I did not study chemistry at Hogwarts."

"You didn't study Potions either."

Harry guffawed. "Very funny. Not revising isn't the same as not studying."

"So you admit it." Snape was smirking in his old ridiculous way, but this time Harry liked it.

"What is permanent polarity?"

"In chemistry, all matter is arranged into atoms that have subatomic particles. The particles called electrons spin in a certain direction. Are you paying attention?"

"This might be harder to understand than potions."

Snape smirked some more. "As I used to when I was teaching, these lecturers present an experiment and then explain the forces behind it."

"Is that what you were doing?"

Snape spoke a spell and the vial hung in the air. "I took the magnet, too, it's in my other pocket." He pulled it out and made the vial pull in and repel out, looking somehow grim yet very pleased.

Of course Snape understood how it worked. Each night he took out a Muggle biro and a pencil and some lined paper to work the chemistry formulas in the textbook. He got absorbed and hummed a little to himself, and muttered under his breath.

Harry thought he might be a little in love with Snape, then. He had felt that way about the Half-Blood Prince and it was just brilliant to see Snape being that person—that sarcastic, lively person. Chemistry, Harry felt, was a very good thing.

It would not be a good thing if that oxygen blew up their flat, though, which was why Snape vanished it. It would not be a good thing to have everything go up in smoke.

* * *

It was not a good thing to come home to a huge Dark Mark hanging in the air over his house. It was slightly worse that Shacklebolt was with him. The sun had just set and in the twilight, the Mark glittered with all its old menace.

Harry knew he looked shaken. He was meant to be living alone, so he couldn't exactly dash up the stairs to his flat.

Shacklebolt grabbed his arm. "It's not a real one, Harry. It's some punter."

"How do you know?" Harry demanded, trying not to sound breathless.

"Look," Shacklebolt said, gesturing with his wand.

It was a firework. He could hear the rockets shooting up one at a time to make the skull shape, and then it stuck out its tongue.

Shacklebolt looked at Harry. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

"Er, about what?"

"George Weasley has been your friend for nine years, and he's suddenly making your rubbish bins explode. What happened?"

Harry stood there. "How did you know it was George? I mean, conclusively."

"I don't know, conclusively, but it seems you also suspect George."

"It had to be someone who—er—likes fireworks and pranks, and didn't want to hurt me."

"But these are very cruel pranks, Harry. I know he lost his twin in the war. Has he been behaving in an unbalanced way?"

"I don't know." Harry's mind was racing. What if George didn't know about Snape? No, no, whoever it was had sent Howlers. George had to know. How did he find out?

Shacklebolt looked around without moving his head, and then gave a tiny nod. "I'll see you tomorrow, Harry," he said, and Disapparated.

"George?" Harry called.

George Weasley appeared at his elbow. "Wotcher, mate," he said softly.

"Did you put this Dark Mark over my house?"

George just stood there, hands in his pockets, looking grimly at the pavement.

"George, for fuck's sake," Harry said, grabbing his shirt front. "Talk to me."

"It's not a real Dark Mark," George said. He winced, leaning his head to one side and scratching the spot where his ear used to be. "Sorry."

"That's fucking lame," Harry said. "It's a Dark Mark! It's a sign that someone has been tortured or killed in my house."

"I didn't think you'd believe it was real," George said.

"What about the rubbish bins?"

George nodded. "I blew them up."

"And the explosion in the corridor outside my flat?"

"Yes, I did that."

"Did you send those Howlers, too?" Harry asked.

George did not confirm or deny, but his face got red.

"How did you find out?" Harry asked. Belatedly he cast a Notice-me-not and a Muffliato.

"Ron and Hermione think they know how to keep me from overhearing their conversations," George said. "I grew up in a magical family and I know how to eavesdrop when something is important. You wouldn't have owled in the middle of the night for something trivial."

"You got through an Unspeakable's security?"

"Unspeakable in training," George said, smirking a little and still not looking at Harry.

"Why did you do it?"

George's smile flattened and his eyes grew serious. "Kingsley is right. I'm unbalanced."

"No really," Harry said.

"Really."

"Were you looking for revenge on Snape for your ear?"

George looked even sadder. "Nah, what good would that do? I know he had to cut me to keep his cover. I can still hear."

"So is this about me, and not about Snape?"

George shrugged. "He was a bastard at school, but I loved Potions. I was, I don't know, relieved when it turned out he was on our side in the end. I didn't want him to be on the dark side."

"So why?"

"Why couldn't it have been Fred who turned out to be alive?"

Harry, who wasn't much at knowing what to say when people were upset, thought, "What would Luna Lovegood say?" She'd probably have some insight about what George needed to hear to suck the poisonous grief out of him so he could stop being such an arse.

He stood there a minute, thinking about it, and then thought, "Fuck it, I'll just hug him, the poor bastard," and did that instead.

"George," he said, patting his friend on the back. George cried in a manly way—huge loud sobs and shudders, and then a big sniffle when he was done. Harry patted him until he seemed to calm down. When George had pulled himself together, he conjured a handkerchief out of the air and wiped his face.

"George," Harry said. "You can't keep making my rubbish explode and setting the Dark Mark over my house."

"I know."

"Because I'll have to arrest you if you do that." Harry tried to show he was serious.

"And if you do that, my mum will find out."

"That's right," Harry said.

"And possibly Angelina."

"I might tell Angelina myself."

"You're a hard man, Potter," George said. "We're practically engaged. I think that gives her the right to blister my remaining ear if I do something stupid."

"You have a life, George. Let Snape have one, too. He's suffered enough."

George nodded. He looked up and did something with his wand. The Dark Mark firework turned into ordinary fireworks, the kind that burst like chrysanthemums and shower glittering coloured sparks, the kind that Harry had always loved. George waved his wand again and there was music playing, too.

Magic.

* * *

Snape entered the downstairs hall of their building about a minute after Harry, blowing on his hands. Harry cast a warming charm on them.

"Forgot my gloves," Snape said. "I have to be careful about doing magic when I'm out."

Harry grabbed his hand and looked into his eyes.

"Potter, are we having a moment? Does this have anything to do with the pyrotechnics outside?"

"I'll show you pyrotechnics," Harry said.

"Upstairs," Snape said. "Not in the doorway."

Harry didn't even know how they climbed the three flights of stairs. He got the door open with a non-verbal Alohomora and it banged shut as he pushed Snape against the wall. He went for Snape's ear, trying to bite and lick the lobe.

"What's come over you?" Snape said, once he'd caught his breath. His erection was poking Harry's thigh in a promising way.

"I want to get on with my life," Harry said. "I'm in love with you and I'm not going to pretend otherwise."

"Oh," Snape said. "Do I have a say in this?"

"Yes," Harry said, standing back immediately and bringing his hands up.

"Then I say yes," Snape said, and he brought up his own hands and threaded his fingers through Harry's. "And I want to fuck." He inclined his head to kiss Harry on the mouth, and Harry's knees got a little wobbly, his whole consciousness melting into his mouth.

"In bed," Snape added after a moment.

Dazed, Harry led the way toward his room, but Snape stopped him. "I have what we need in here," he said.

"You do?" There was a copy of _The Joy of Gay Sex_ on the nightstand with dozens of bookmarks in it, a tube of lubricant and a small box. "Did you plan this?"

"I like to be prepared," Snape said. "For any eventuality," he continued, blushing.

Harry pushed him onto the bed, trying to kiss his neck and ears. Snape's hands wandered, cupping Harry's arse. Harry knelt to undo his trousers.

"Hurry up," Snape said.

Harry stripped and then started to unbutton Snape, who sat up and took off his trousers.

"Shirt, too," Harry said.

"All right," Snape said, and popped one of the buttons off in his urgency.

Harry lay on top of him, humping and licking and generally trying to _have_ him, to bite him, to touch him everywhere, to grab and hold on. Snape did not tell him to slow down, either. He grabbed Harry's hair and pulled his head back and licked his Adam's apple, and then bit down where his neck met his shoulder and sucked. He stroked between Harry's buttocks, teasing his perineum.

"Do you want to fuck me?" Harry asked.

"Have you bottomed before?"

Bottomed, that probably meant being on the receiving end. "No," Harry gasped, "but I'm willing to try."

"I'm ready, though," Snape said. Harry must have looked bewildered. "I have been sodomising myself with that object," he said, gesturing toward the nightstand.

Oh, it was a dildo in that box. Harry hadn't recognised it right away from the modern-looking graphic on the package.

"What?" Harry said. His mouth had failed to catch up with his brain, which had just sent most of the blood in his body straight down to his cock.

"I have been fucking myself on that in anticipation of you fucking me," Snape said.

Harry was breathing very hard now.

"Let me show you," Snape said. He reached for the box and opened it, taking out a long, slender dong. "Give me the lube," he said.

"I can—I can do that," Harry said. "Put the lube on you."

Snape lay on his back and squirted lube on the sex toy, and then, looking nowhere and concentrating very hard, slowly inserted it between his cheeks. He slid it in, and then pulled it out part way and slammed it in again.

"Does that feel good?" Harry asked.

"Yes." Snape got on all fours. The dildo was still inside him. "Fuck me," he said.

Harry felt light-headed. He pulled the dildo out slowly and saw that it was slightly longer and quite a bit thinner than his cock. "I'm, uh, wider than this."

"You'll need more lube," Snape said. Harry took the tube and squirted the cold stuff right onto his cock, which for a wonder didn't soften a bit. He started to work his cock in and it did fit, sort of, but as he slid in, it was very tight.

Tight and hot.

"Is it OK?" Harry asked.

Snape couldn't answer. He made a sound that was mainly consonants. Harry slid in further. His hips wanted to move. He could get in a little deeper if he worked Snape's arse, squeezing the muscular cheeks around his prick.

"Do it," Snape said. "Move." Harry thrust and he cried out.

"Did it hurt?"

"No," Snape said. He shoved back on Harry's erection, so that they slapped together. "It's good. It's good," he panted.

Harry thought he might die from the sensation of the heat, the tightness of the embrace, and the sound of Snape's voice. He leaned forward on Snape's long back, feeling the curve of his spine as he bent and pushed back against the fucking. He was groaning and his voice vibrated through his back. Harry felt it in his core. He tried to grab Snape's cock to jerk him off, but his grip was all slippery from the lube and it slid a lot.

"I'm going to come," Harry said. "I can't help it, you feel so good! I'm sorry!"

"Yes," Snape growled. "Yes!" His arse tightened around Harry's cock and miraculously, he came, spurting in Harry's hand, making the most incredible sounds. Harry shivered and knew he was also crying out, but couldn't stop.

He flopped forward onto Snape and there they stayed, sticky and panting, for a few minutes.

"That was intimate," Snape said. "Excuse me."

He got up quickly and went into the bathroom. Harry heard the toilet flush and the shower start up.

He lay there, completely unable to move. He'd had an explosive orgasm, one that felt like the concluding punctuation to a long argument. Even so, his cock seemed to want to relive the whole thing.

"Potter," Snape said, sticking his head out of the bathroom, "Come have a shower with me."

Harry got up and got his sea legs under him. Snape was naked. He threw open the shower door and stood under the spray. "Come here," he said.

Harry went to him and held him under the water. "Wow," he said. "Did you read about this in the book?"

"Yes." Snape had got some soap and was soaping Harry.

"It's really good."

"I can't believe you did that blow job without research."

Harry smiled. "Learn by doing, I always say."

When Snape kissed him, Harry could feel that he was smiling too.  


  


-The End-

  


**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the Cliché Fest on Snape_Potter. I love [Periodic Table of Videos](http://www.periodicvideos.com/) and I think that's quite obvious to anyone else who has seen those videos. This isn't a crossover because they aren't in Nottingham. (Have you ever thought Neil was actually a brilliant working-class wizard in disguise? Me, too.) I had four beta-readers on three continents--many thanks to Green, Lookfar, Countess Zero and Liseuse--but any errors that remain after this conscientious scouring are not coming out.


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